Don't Need the Sunshine and Shoot the Messenger
by Jilly-chan
Summary: Not your typical post-EW story. Trowa and Dorothy search for their place in the post-war world. She wants to write the definitive book on warfare. He has other ideas.
1. Don't Need the Sunshine

Don't Need the Sunshine  
by Jillian Storm  
  
Ten years after the war Dorothy investigates to see where the Gundam Wing boys are and  
finds them in the most unexpected places. However, all records of Trowa Barton are  
suspiciously missing. Dorothy finds out why.  
  
(Disclaimer: This is my idea, but these are not my characters. Granted, they are my favorite  
Gundam Wing characters, so I certainly feel as if I know them well in my own mind--even if  
they did not originate there. Anyway. This is post GW universe, and I tried to make it  
different than the expected "post GW universe"--inspired in part by music groups Catatonia  
and also No Doubt, which I recently re -discovered. No Doubt was my high school "nasty girl"  
music before I graduated to the overseas crowd. "Nasty girl" music, see. Now you know why  
I *adore* Dorothy Catalonia . . . )  
  
Between the bookends of my life, most of my ambitions surrounded men and war. Of course,  
there was the small fascination with following Relena Peacecraft around to see exactly how  
long she could stand by her ideals of men and peace. It was peculiarly similar and vexingly  
different to watch her find alternate answers to the same questions that I was asking.   
Anyway, even long after the "great" war as many are caught referring to it--I would argue that  
their were great men in this war but the war itself was hardly "great" by the standards of  
previous wars--I was researching in the Lake Victoria libraries for information on ancient  
warfare.   
  
We may be living in a time of peace when old war-bases are turned into educational,  
peaceful, facilities--but the evidence of war is far from forgotten. Peace always tastes better  
when one remembers the efforts that brought it.  
  
I sat at a public computer terminal at the Base and a to -scale model of a Leo was just outside  
the window. A horrible and elegant example of humankind's achievements.  
  
Glancing back at the computer screen, I typed in the search word, "Gundam." Scanning the  
results I could read old colonist propaganda both supporting and condemning the rebellious  
activity. Narrow the search. "Pilots."  
  
Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy. I remembered him as the first knight of the terrorist battle who  
had followed through his mission to the last breath. But then he had kept breathing and had  
to find something else to do. Unless the Victoria Base Library was severely mistaken--Heero  
had married a colony girl and raised a litter of little Yuys thereby staying out of the  
aggressively, political scene. The most recent news surrounding the pilot 01 had him winning  
some kennel competition with a pure bread canine he'd raised and trained. I seemed to  
remember Heero having a thing for puppies and kids.  
  
Duo Maxwell. I had just seen him at one of Quatre's parties, well, it had been about eight  
months ago. But since the war had been over for ten years, that was fairly recent. Duo  
actually set himself up as the owner and star DJ of an inter -colony/Earth entertainment  
station--resurrecting broadcast music and other old media. He had quite a monopoly on the  
revived organization, but Duo claimed he was completely non -profit. From the way he was  
dressed at Quatre's last party, I would have to believe him.  
  
  
Quatre actually followed the Winner tradition of going to medical school and decided to  
become a doctor. By this point, he was almost finished with the extensive education program.   
His sister, Irea, had a colony clinic of which a good deal was charity work. Quatre did  
volunteer work there when he took internships during his later study. What did he do with all  
the money? Well, school was pretty expensive, but the kid really liked to throw parties. And,  
somehow, after ten years he'd forgiven me for stabbing his delicate tummy. "You barely  
missed my dorso -lateral antigenic duct, Dorothy, but when the doctors repaired my ossophytic  
membrane--and that didn't take *hours*--they discovered the latent (and might I add highly  
dangerous!) case of vasilial meningococcus I was developing. So you actually did me a great  
favor . . ." About ten words in the Winner kid had lost me but still, somehow, made me feel  
good about myself. I was glad he had . . . direction.   
  
Wufei Chang felt a religious calling after the war and rebuilt his family temple along with a  
dojo - school . Wufei didn't teach the lessons himself but he often exercised and practiced  
with the youngsters invested with the program. Wufei came to Quatre's parties, but would eye  
me warily. Until, Quatre would notice the problem and promptly start up again about my  
miraculous sword thrusting ability and how I would make an excellent pupil at the dojo. Wufei  
would remind him that they didn't use swords for his current style of *martial* arts. I smiled to  
myself, remembering how I had piled a herd of energized civilians into my semi's and plopped  
them at the feet of Wufei's Gundam. From me, he learned about the value of many bodies -ªand how they could use some discipline and training.  
  
I reached the end of the list of entries. And a thought tickled the back of my mind. I was one  
pilot short , and that was the reason why I had come. Was there simply no news on Trowa Barton? But how was that possible? He had done that circus thing. They were rather successful so the press should have had some sort of coverage of the events?   
  
An hour later I was starting to get cross -eyed, but the computer had no record of any Trowa  
Barton besides the original aristocrat from the colonies who had been killed before the  
Gundam war had begun. I jotted down a few more references for my book, but my face  
began to slip into a concentrated frown. Had I seen Trowa more than two times at required  
reunions since the war? Why wasn't Trowa Barton in the database?  
  
Because Trowa Barton was in the Lake Victoria Library.   
  
I saw his lean frame step out from between two shelves of typeset texts. He had one book in  
hand flipping through the delicate pages with the other. Uncharacteristic, thin -rimmed glasses  
were delicately balanced on the end of his nose, but it was undeniably the oldest, tallest,  
thinnest Gundam pilot. At twenty -eight, it was no surprise that Barton's eyes might need a  
little coaxing to see the words-- ancient typeset text, but I was surprised that he opted for an  
antique model when corrective surgery was so simple. Quatre could probably have do it  
when he was a second -year student.   
  
I watched Trowa fold himself into a chair, adjusting for his gangly legs under the fancy, cherryªwood table. I glanced back at the unhelpful computer, collected my materials and decided to  
go interview the real thing. I was intending to write the definitive book on war as my lifetime  
achievement. I would need primary sources.  
  
"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Barton." I pulled out a chair, the same dark -red stained color as  
the table, and waited until he nodded to sit down. Sometimes it's painful to be polite, but   
society demanded it from me. If I could coast just under the radar by honoring a few social  
norms, I found I could escape and be myself a great deal more.   
  
"What are you doing here, Ms. Catalonia?"   
  
"Dorothy." I smiled and met his grave green eyes as they peered over the reading glasses. "I  
did skewer your best friend at one point, so I suppose that makes us intimates."  
  
He didn't smile, but with his reputation, I expected as much. "The dorso -lateral antigenic  
duct? And the vasilial menigo -something? I've heard." An amused breath passed his lips.   
"I've heard."  
  
"Well, I was a little misguided back then, you know." I pulled my hair behind one ear and it  
slipped free again. After losing one of my childhood crushes to his "beloved lieutenant," I  
decided I needed a change and the hair was the first thing to go. "But Quatre Winner's a  
great guy, I'm glad I, um, saved his life."  
  
"Right."  
  
I decided that Trowa Barton was a tough crowd. "What are you up to at the Lake Victoria  
Library?"  
  
  
"Reading." He tilted the book so I could read the title. I couldn't read the title. "Ã  
The Divine Comedy, by Dante." He supplied with a slight curl to his lips. I understood and rolled my  
eyes. "You should give it a try sometime. I've had the chance to make it through several,  
various translations. It's a tragedy how many folks misunderstand or never finish this  
particular piece of fiction." He scanned the page and turned it over to exam the backside.   
"Good stuff though, Dante *really* mastered that terza rima. Purgatory's my favorite."  
  
Jumping to the bait, my novelist sensibilities asked, "Why's that, Mr. Barton? Don't tell me  
that after ten years . . ."  
  
". . . I feel like I'm living in purgatory?" Trowa finished without looking up from the page.   
Then he faced me with a tight impression of a smile, "No. Not anymore. How about  
yourself?"   
  
The verbal game had come up a draw. I had felt like my old self for the briefest of moments.   
"No. I guess not." I reflected his tight smile. Was he agitated with me? With the question?   
Why did I continually get cold shoulders? Then I remembered. Why wasn't he in the  
database?  
  
"So why are you here, Dorothy?" He asked again, pausing before saying my name. I  
wondered if he'd ever really spoken to me before. I couldn't recall.  
  
"I'm researching and writing the definitive book on warfare."   
  
"Not unexpected." Trowa nodded, his fingers lacing over the now closed   
"Divine Comedy"  
.   
"No, Mr. Barton . . ."  
  
"Call me Trowa if you want."  
  
"Well, see the funny thing is . . . that there is no Mr. Barton or Trowa Barton--that is *you*--in  
the entire Lake Victoria database." I watched his face, curious. "Almost as if your files were,   
let's say, *purged*. What do you make of that?"  
  
"Before Dante can see heaven, he's asked to drink from the Waters of Oblivion in order to  
erase the guilty memory of his faults--an offer of forgiveness." Trowa smiled, more gently this  
time.  
  
"So are you going to heaven?" I asked, somewhat confused. Was he suicidal? No.  
  
"Figuratively." Trowa answered.   
  
"Um, can you say more about that?" I pushed, curious now that he was being cryptic. That  
had to mean that Trowa was serious.  
  
"Are you a reporter now, Dorothy?" He smiled again, leaning back in his chair and lacing his  
fingers over his thin stomach.  
  
"Nope." I shook my head with an eye -crinkled, flirty smile. "I just hadn't heard the news that  
heaven had come to earth."  
  
"I've been on Earth visiting Catherine, if you must know." Trowa lifted his thumbs with the  
statement before settling them back against his button -up shirt. "She was my partner in the  
circus act. We were co -ringmasters for about seven years before Catherine decided to  
migrate to Earth. She came to visit once on tour and adored Italy. Something about the  
Mediterranean and a dashing guy named Pietro she couldn't resist." Trowa rolled his eyes  
back and examined the re -decorated ceiling. "I'm expecting my first god -child."  
  
"But no family of your own?" I couldn't help but ask the personal questions, some inhibition  
was recklessly ignited--and as long as he was actually comfortable and equally reckless by  
volunteering information.  
  
He didn't answer that one and was quiet for a while. I felt my regrown compassion start to  
scold me. It wasn't as if I had taken the Heero Yuy path and thereby finding for myself a nice  
colony citizen to start a family with. I had been looking for something else these past ten  
years. I couldn't do that.  
  
"Me either." Trowa said softly. And I realized I must have shared that last thought out loud.   
He was still looking at the ceiling. Then out the window. "So when I got an invitation to work  
on the Terra -Project, I realized that I wasn't finished working. I wasn't finished using my  
soldier born talents for this new world."  
  
"The Terra -Project? I thought that was abandoned?" I was sort of startled with that thought.   
Soon after the war, some of the council members had proposed a project to find or re-construct a planet so that it was compatible with human life. After three years of fluctuating media coverage, the project had lost it's momentum. I thought it had ended as an impossibility.  
  
  
Trowa looked back at me. "No, it's been a raw project since the end of the war. Just now  
coming into pioneering possibilities."  
  
"What?" I hissed, suddenly disbelieving yet knowing that Trowa Barton would not lie about  
such a thing. "It's impossible. The news systems haven't discussed the Terra Project in  
years. If they had had any successes . . ."  
  
" . . . they would want to keep them rather quiet. If not *purge* them from the databanks  
completely." Trowa added, "I think that's how you put it."  
  
"So you accepted? A program that's *hidden* from the public? A public the prides itself on  
being informed?" I started to argue aimlessly, testing his answers to see if I understood him  
correctly.  
  
"I accepted after I received an official recommendation and offer from Zechs Marquis and  
Lucrezia Noin."  
  
"Oh my gosh," I felt the words tumble out of my lips as unexpected as Trowa's revelation. I  
had known. I had known that Zechs left on some secretive mission that was more than a  
love -get -away with Noin. And with Zechs on the mission so long, the Terra -Project might be  
near opening stages. And to *need* Zechs on the mission, the Terra -Project was probably  
quite a challenge. "What happened up there?"  
  
"They found a site, one that Earth had been looking at before the colonies   
were constructed, but was unable to reach with their current technology. Zechs and Noin had led a team of  
scientists to gather information on the planetary conditions and habitability factors. They're  
ready to take the Terra -Project to the next step. It's still risky, even though they've examined  
and researched every factor of Earth's biosphere and paralleled it with Eunoe."  
  
"Eunoe?"  
  
"Earth -2. Or," Trowa smiled, then tapped his book, "the second river Dante drinks from  
before he enters heaven. The waters of Good Remembrance--an offer of grace."  
  
"It sounds so hopeful." I admitted.  
  
"That's what I thought." Trowa nodded. "I'm leading a group of pioneers to actually land on  
the planet and try to settle the land. Grow food. Survive. And then introduce a larger  
population."  
  
"And when does the public find out about this?" I wasn't about to let him slip out of explaining  
his rationalization of that one question.  
  
"When we survive." Trowa shrugged. "I'm fine with becoming an invisible player. It's  
something that I've become rather talented at doing. And the project is going to need  
someone who can lead from the inside of a group--as a member of the team."  
  
"And you're willing to go, even when Catherine is . . . " My kind heart sneaks up on me now  
and again. I started to worry about his well -being, and I'm a little surprised. Catching my  
sentence mid -thought.   
  
"Who else?" Trowa looked at me, kindly. "Who else erases as quickly as myself from the  
general public eye?"  
  
"I noticed you."   
  
Trowa started for a second, his eyes settling on the book. He set his hands stiffly on either  
side of the volume, one hand playing with the top corner of the pages. "Not that many people  
are researching the definitive book on warfare." He seemed unchanged then. His eyes, face,  
soft and his lips almost, but not, smiling.  
  
"Catherine will miss you." I shrugged, letting him believe that he could disappear. Believing  
that he could myself.  
  
"We made a good team." Trowa nodded, seeming more than a little sad. "But she has the  
baby . . ."  
  
"And you'll miss your god -child."  
  
"I'm sure," Trowa hesitated. "There is that. I'm not going completely satisfied, but I  
understand that they need me."  
  
I sat still, studying the pilled grey carpet, the heavily shelved walls, and the dark wood tables.   
"Well, that's a lot to register." I said, filling our empty space--the strange familiarity with this  
person I only knew in passing. "You're going to join Zechs and Noin in their project to take  
humanity to new space." I shook my head, chuckling.  
  
"Not exactly," Trowa tilted his head to one side. "I'm going because Zechs and Noin are  
coming back."  
  
"They've abandoned the project?" I asked, surprised.  
  
"No," Trowa smiled, almost. "They have another project that they're working on presently.   
That's why they need me."  
  
"Who else is going with you then? It'll take several hands to replace their's. Not that you're  
incapable." I quickly added holding up my palms for him to see. I looked at them a second.   
Older hands. Pale hands. Unused hands. "What if . . ."  
  
"Would you understand what it was to disappear, Dorothy Catalonia? Would you ever try?" I  
heard his voice, but I stare at my hands. So different than Trowa. So confrontational and  
forward, but tempered with a regrown compassion and the ability to trust.  
  
I looked up and saw his gentle eyes, questioning. Offering. Drink new waters.   
  
I smile   
.   
"Why not? No one would read the definitive book on warfare anyway."  
  
the end?  
  
the beginning?  
ha ha ha   
Jillian 


	2. Shoot the Messenger

Gundam Wing General  
A companion story/second part to Don't Need the Sunshine   
that follows Trowa and Dorothy's mission following   
Endless Waltz.  
  
Shoot the Messenger  
by Jillian Storm  
  
(Disclaimer: For my own pleasure (yup, no one's financially   
supporting me!), I decided to write a companion story to   
Don't Need the Sunshine. This takes place after Trowa and   
Dorothy have decided to follow Zechs and Noin as   
coordinators of the Terra Project--to bring human life to   
planet Eunoe. Hmm. People always confuse Noin's hair with   
Trowa's rather stylish mop. Then Dorothy is just as blond   
as Zechs and--well, aren't they just mirror opposites? No,   
don't think about that. Enjoy the story. It's largely   
speculative and somewhat alternate post-Endless Waltz. So   
there were Gundams once, but the boys all ended up in different   
places. Expect unconventional coupling. Quatre went off to   
medical school, Duo's running an intergalactic radio   
station, etc. The craziness brought about by post-  
graduation. Here is the musing--)  
  
  
***  
Present  
***  
Bring back the moment when everything seemed as if it might   
still be reprimanded. Might be corrected. Might be   
cured. But since when has separation been a disease? Isn't   
the moment when the cancer is cut away, divided from the   
body--isn't that the cure? I swat at the insect which has   
been hitting the metal lampshade with almost musical   
*tings*--each one considerably more persistent in pitch and   
duration. I wonder why I've agreed. Agreed to try this   
again. And here we are.  
  
He sits with his forehead pressed against his folded hands,   
breathing on his food. He never orders anything different.   
Each place has the specific meal that he considers,   
considers, considers again and then orders. As the waitress   
waits, he pauses so that his mouth stands open a moment,   
showing only bottom teeth. Then his grey-green eyes appear   
to deliberate the decision one last time, before he   
predictably orders, once again, with no surprises, exactly   
what he had ordered the last time. And the time before   
that. Today has been no different.  
  
"Why does it always start over food?" He asks. The last   
steam from the just-arrived food fogging his glasses for a   
moment as he glances up and at me. His mouth, slightly   
parted, bottom teeth. They sit rather straight, tall   
soldiers.   
  
Rigid like his personality. Slightly tainted by a morning   
coffee ritual.   
  
"Food?" I ask, dumbly. I haven't tried to decipher   
something he's said for quite a while. It used to amuse me.   
  
I can hardly remember why since it's been much simpler to   
repeat the last word he says and let him continue.  
"When ever we discuss something, it's over a meal." He   
passes his fork over the noodles, displaying the evidence.   
Clearly, we are at a meal. "Not that controversial   
conversations are good for digestion. We must skip the   
subject matter that can't be cured by the Alkeseltzer."  
  
"You need an Alkeseltzer? You haven't touched your food."   
See. It's much easier to simply repeat what ever word he   
says at the end, then I don't have to really listen too   
closely. Coming tonight was his idea. Above his ears, I see   
evidence of his age. A scattering of dust colored hair   
between the reddish-brown mop. He always needed a haircut,   
his hair hanging in his eyes, over the wire rim glasses.   
Only his incredibly infiltration and invisibility skills   
saved him from any reprimands regarding his outward   
appearance. Not that there was anything to complain about   
beyond the "no-eye-contact" problem.   
  
It's hard to believe that this man was the person who   
convinced me to enter the greatest era of my life. Showed   
me how to progress and accept my past. To become whole.   
Hard to believe that I had changed so much, and so little.   
And that Trowa Barton was still, always, trying to   
disappear behind his scruffy hair.   
  
Trowa pokes at one noodle with his silverwear. Lets it   
dangle above the others. His eyes cross over his nose as he   
examines the specific object. Then turning both eyes full   
on me, he tastes it. "Just like this, Dorothy."  
  
I pause when he says my name. This disrupts my pattern   
conversation.  
  
"What brings us both back here?" He stabs another noodle.   
He eats it, chewing with a cow-like deliberation. His   
expressive eyes, behind the glasses, are always thoughtful.   
One more noodle. Chews.  
  
I ask, "Here?"   
  
When he doesn't say anything, that's when he's most like   
himself. Listening and thoughtful. Cow-like. My lips pull   
back at the thought of Trowa being anything like a bovine.   
Working with him, I always found him more like a barn   
swallow--capable of both incredible acrobatics as well as   
hovering on a breeze without moving. Spontaneously chatty,   
then intolerably silent.   
  
"I suppose here is where everything happened." I guess.   
Poke at my own food.   
  
***  
Three years earlier.  
***  
  
It wasn't terribly hard to admit as we watched the ribbon   
being cut in front of the first, to-be-inhabited city of   
Eunoe.   
  
When the colonizing preparation of earth two was completed   
and ready. I was ready for love. Or in love with the idea   
of love. And, as surprising as it was, I was in love with   
Trowa Barton. They say that years of isolation and hardship   
can bring couples together. Whoever "they" are, in this   
case, it *was* happening to me.   
  
After the wars ended, I had officially met him at the Lake   
Victoria Base Library, while investigating my definitive   
book on warfare. One provocative conversation, then Trowa   
had convinced me that I needed to put my muted but still   
powerful confrontational skills to good use. And I followed   
him to space. In my softer moments, I might have said that   
I followed my heart.  
  
Things had changed that much. I had chopped off all of my   
childish hair earlier, convinced that I was liberating   
myself from a long cycle of idolization. Admiration.   
Basically stalking Zechs and Treize. I was past that. So I   
followed Trowa Barton on his project, thinking that this   
would be the next step toward something different.  
  
And, as much as I would have denied it, I fell in love. I   
couldn't say that I was charmed by anything except his   
quietness. But he had such a witty way of being quiet. I   
couldn't say that I was smitten with only his dashing good   
looks. But he had such a way of going cross-eyed in the   
evening when he was tired, dirty--and tired--from a long   
day inspecting the fields. Nonetheless, I was charmed and   
smitten.  
  
Unfortunately, I'm not very discrete--or at my best--when   
I'm charmed, smitten and interested. With an initial   
pioneering crew of twenty, it wasn't hard to get Trowa to   
myself.  
  
I remember it all beginning at one dinner, the vegetables   
were particularly dry and tasteless since we'd been   
experimenting with our own first produce from Eunoe fields-  
-watching him spear each bean and study it intently before   
taking his bite. And chewing.  
  
"How is it?" I watched as I stirred another boiling pot   
from the nearby kitchen area. We, the first pioneers, had   
five different shelters to share. Trowa and I each had a   
room in the central building designated HQ, the other   
eighteen were spread between the remaining four shelters.  
  
"Keep making them just like this, Dorothy." He stopped   
commenting to chew another deliberately selected bean. I   
figured that he meant they tasted best that way and beamed   
with pride. I liked making him happy, making his life a   
little easier. He'd worked so hard to salvage the last crop   
after unexpected floods. Half of the fields became   
swampland and the waters were not receding. We feared the   
following insect infestation in the new wetlands, but Trowa   
had insisted on staying the extra week needed to revive and   
retrieve the last of our crop--mostly beans and a little   
corn. We weren't sure if we could survive another change of   
the seasons without salvaging some of that crop.  
"You like them, huh?" I was still glowing as I finished my   
chore and joined him at the table. It was an inconveniently   
low table-top for him, and Trowa had his chair back from   
the table so he could spare his knees. Whereby, he had to   
lean over his plate with some awkwardness to eat.  
  
He continued to shovel the beans, individually, into his   
mouth. Barely opening his lips to close them again. I often   
wondered what it would be like to reach over and taste his   
lips for myself. They'd become rather appealing after seven   
months of eagerly waiting, anticipating, willing for them   
to speak, speak to me. I took the seat next to him.   
Uncomfortably close--for him. I was admiring his jaw-line.   
Watching it chew.  
  
"Dorothy?" He asked, twisting his shoulders so that he was   
leaning away. Opening his body language, but keeping his   
face forward to look at the opposite wall. I didn't turn to   
see the front door he was watching so intently. I wondered   
how his glasses could stay perfectly balanced on his narrow   
nose and how the wire rims circled around his ears--which   
didn't stick out nearly as much now that he was older, and   
certainly not as much when viewed in profile. 'What are . .   
." he continued.  
  
I could feel my face flush, but I'm rather unashamed.   
Morality hadn't cured me of frankness.   
  
"What are we . . ."   
  
I leaned forward. *What are we doing, my dear?* Why, I   
think I'm absolutely adoring your lower lip. But before I   
could suggest that idea, Trowa finished his own thought.  
  
"What ever are we going to do about these insects?" He   
popped another bean past his lips and finally leaned back   
into his seat, intently studying the wall.  
  
I gave up and looked myself, to see a steady path of about   
a hundred, large, ant-like critters crawling across the   
wall and looping around themselves as more entered the   
shelter through the floors. Ant-beetles, we called them   
with great unoriginality. Disgusted, I hurried to the   
kitchen to see what might have caught their attention. "I   
think this falls under   
  
*your* job description." I protested.  
  
"Pest control?" Trowa asked, indifference in his tone,   
somehow, even as a nest of bugs entered our home. "Yes, we   
do learn how to tolerate the most extreme situations here."  
  
I wouldn't have cared to hear his second comment. Except   
that Trowa never really says more than he needs to, unless   
he means to. Unless he really means what he's saying. He   
isn't the sort to drop insulting comments without expecting   
to be heard and understood. Of course, I thought he meant   
me. Everything was about myself.   
  
"So," I started bravely, then choked quietly on what I   
wanted to say. So you have to tolerate me do you? Extreme   
situations made you find me and recruit me for this crappy   
job. Not that you wanted to. Not that you ever got to like   
me. Figure me out. Just like . . .  
  
"So?" Trowa had speared another individual bean and it   
hovered between his plate and the lower lip I'd liked so   
much just a second before. I tried to imagine him piercing   
that lip with his fork and the instant bead of blood and .   
. . no, that wasn't what I wanted. He continued, "So the   
weather is a bit awful, but we saved the crop and now we   
can move before the seasons change. With the water standing   
the way it is, it was only a matter of time before the ant-  
beetles worked their way into our shelters."  
  
I continued to wipe down the kitchen, but inwardly slumped.   
Why did I make myself so vulnerable again? That was too   
close. Too much like the devotion I put into Zechs, into   
Treize. There was nothing particularly interesting about   
Trowa Barton at all. Nothing to make him anything like the   
others.  
  
"What's this?" Trowa said aloud, obviously to draw my   
attention even as he crossed from the table to the   
communications corner. We had a rather antique   
communications system since we were always on the move to   
learn more about the seasons and habitat of different   
regions on Eunoe. But, since we thought we would farm our   
current location--that was before it flooded--Trowa had   
used his technical know-how to make a more permanent audio   
and visual system between the shelters and the field   
outposts. Someone was trying to get our attention.  
  
"Uh . . hello? . . .*schnert* . . . "   
  
I could just begin to make out the words accompanying the   
hesitant voice barely coming through the system.  
  
"Identify yourself." Trowa spoke quickly into the   
microphone. His voice was pitched just a bit lower than   
normal. I wondered why he felt the need to disguise his   
tone. Only the other pioneers knew . . .  
  
*Um, yes . . . *schnert* . . . I'm calling from . . .   
*schnert* . . . "  
  
The voice was cut off, then replaced with another. "Hello,   
it is you! This is everyone's favorite intergalactic DJ   
making a routine call to make sure that *YOU* are getting   
the best service that a station can provide . . . *schnert*   
. . . how's it going out there?"  
  
Trowa's eyes widened and he glanced up at me. "Duo." He   
whispered. "But no one knows that we're here."  
  
"Obviously I wasn't the only person concerned when you   
turned up missing." I reasoned. Trowa continued to look   
incredibly perplexed. "Talk to him. He's your friend. It's   
not like one conversation will betray your invisibility."  
  
He seemed to doubt me, but accepted my decision for him. He   
leaned toward the microphone when Duo's voice came   
back.  
  
" . . . *schnert* . . . I've got myself an Arabian Prince   
here who's been worried sick about his missing chum . . .   
*schnert* . . . and you should hear the rumors flying about   
you leaving with a chick . . . *schnert* . . . "  
  
"I . . ." Trowa tried to get a word in. I wondered what   
rumors were flying around. What chick?  
  
The voice of the Arabian Prince, who could be none other   
than Quatre burst back into the conversation. " . . . It   
*is* you . . . oh my gosh, I'm so glad to know you're alive   
and okay . . . when my graduation invitation came back to   
me "return-to-sender" I was so worried and your circus   
partner was no help . . . "   
  
Trowa took the initiative and interrupted. "How is she?" He   
paused, his voice was still thick and low. "How's the ba .   
. .?"  
  
" . . . *schnert* . . . healthy, olive skin and dark eyes   
like her daddy . . . "  
  
Trowa's mouth dropped open and he spun out of his seat to   
grab me around the waist spinning me around the room.   
  
"It's a girl." He put me down and took a step back. "I'm an   
uncle." Then he let go of me, sitting down again, taking   
the microphone but unable to form words with his soundless   
lips.  
  
Quatre kept chatting away, " . . . *schnert* . . . terrible   
brown hair is always in her eyes . . . kind of like her . .   
.   
*schnert* . . . "  
  
The connection was bad, but between the two of them Quatre   
and Duo continued to give us more news about Earth and   
Trowa's friends. In fact, besides acknowledging his   
identity, Trowa didn't have to say much besides reassuring   
them--and only once--that he was fine. They must have   
believed him, or wanted to believe him, and didn't ask him   
anything else--risking to compromise his secrecy. Keeping   
things comfortable and not causing problems for the   
clandestine operation we were supposed to be enforcing.  
Trowa frowned as they began to complete the message of   
greetings, "How did you find . . . ?" He started, but was   
interrupted again.  
  
" . . . *schnert* . . . goodness, and here I thought we   
were just making a memorial tape for our lost friend if he   
ever came back. Y'know, to let him know he should come   
back, when he's finished doing whatever . . . *schnert* . .   
. but, somehow, we've been broadcasting it into deep space   
. . . *schnert* . . . wonder how that happened? Well,   
sayonara!"  
  
" . . . *schnert* . . . " Then Quatre's voice, " . . . dear   
friend . . . "  
  
Trowa turned off the microphone and said softly, "Goodbye."   
I decided to break the sad silence. "Heero's having another   
kid? Good grief. And to think that Wufei has been visiting   
that one Preventer's woman. Whatever was her name? She was   
the troublesome doctor during the wars. I wonder how they   
met. Odd pair." Trowa sat still, silent. I spoke trying to   
comfort my isolated self as much as his. "Well, you   
certainly didn't achieve total invisibleness," He glanced   
up at me and his eyes were shining, happy and sad behind   
the shining glass. I choked, "um, they certainly care about   
you . . ."  
  
And then he had stood and wrapped me in a hug all at once.   
  
"I guess I'm losing the talent for invisibility." Trowa   
said over my head. I patted his back in a friendly way,   
then wondered if that was wrong. Either way, I decided that   
I did adore him when he added, "And I'm certainly glad that   
you're here with me."  
  
"Me too." I added dumbly. Confident we had the better part   
of two years to figure out what that meant.  
  
***  
Present  
***  
  
Now we're sitting in a restaurant not far from the swamp   
land--which has already been declared a forest preserve and   
home to six different endangered species--none of those   
being the ant-beetles. Trowa's finished his meal, one   
noodle at a time. It is taxing to watch him eat sometimes.   
Who knows why he has to do it like that. We've hardly   
spoken.  
  
After the ribbon snapped and Relena came to survey the good   
work and the press was thrilled with anything new to   
report, after the people came to Eunoe--Trowa somehow   
withdrew. He wanted to go back to Earth--to see Catherine.   
So see Catherine's daughter, almost four without having   
seen her uncle. He was going through the colonies so that   
he could stop by Heero's kennel of kids and puppies and by   
Duo's satellite to confiscate any evidence that Eunoe was   
not a completely secret operation. That one conversation   
was the only time we'd heard from the outside world until   
Trowa sent the "ready" broadcast to Relena herself.  
And when that world was far away, and we were only two of   
twenty, Trowa made my universe. He didn't seem to mind. He   
needed me as well. But it's different admitting you aren't   
invisible in a small familiar group. Rejoin the entire   
populated universe, and well . . . when I asked Trowa when   
he was coming back--to me--he didn't answer.  
  
Of course, I wasn't brave enough to ask him until the   
shuttle was taking off. Funny, as soon as Relena came   
officially--an entire city appeared on the surface of   
Eunoe--on a well-scouted site.   
  
He turned, the spaceport wasn't as busy as one's on earth,   
but there were enough people to make him speak softly. "I   
don't know Dorothy. I've been close to very few people, and   
none of those friendships asked of me what your asking . .   
."  
  
I left him. I wasn't going to watch him turn, watch his   
back as he walked the entire way to the shuttle entrance.   
He was going to have to watch me.   
  
All I had wanted was his love. Something he *had* been able   
to give to those "very few people" . . .   
  
. . . "Catherine. Quatre." Now, I speak, initiating the   
overdue conversation. "How are they?"  
  
His lips form the softest smile before he speaks. They are   
his special people. He hadn't seen them in so long.   
  
"Quatre's a doctor. He's been offered incredible positions   
everywhere, but he's insisting on working his way up to   
them and is trying to find someplace that will simply take   
him at an entry-level position."  
  
"Isn't that a waste of talents?" I ask, listening.  
  
"It's how he wants to do things now. He's interested in   
coming to Eunoe actually, and there will be no small   
players in medicine here. We have an entire world of new   
medical adventures. Remember how excited Rich was every   
time he found new bacteria or every time one of us came   
down with a new virus?"  
  
"Should you use the word 'excited'?" I wonder, half-aloud.  
  
"Catherine's great. She's expecting again, and little   
Carlotta is taking good care of her mother." Trowa's lips   
made that small smile again as he pauses. Thinking back on   
his visit.   
  
"Why did you come back if Catherine's expecting again? I   
thought you'd want to be with her for your next god-child .   
. ."  
  
Trowa breathes a laugh. "She has Pietro. I'm a welcome   
diversion, but he's the father of these children. It's best   
I only visit. These years have really improved their   
relationship."  
  
"Like the guy any better?" I ask nosily.  
  
"A bit. I guess I wouldn't really have liked anyone who   
could take Catherine away from the circus, away from me.   
He's good with Carlotta." Trowa seems content.  
  
"I'm sure you were good with Carlotta as well." I say   
starting to fall back on my routine conversation habits.   
Disinterested since this isn't exactly what I wanted to   
talk about.  
  
"Yeah, she . . ." Trowa's voice became small as he trailed   
off and his eyes crossed over his nose with some happy   
thought. "She made me want to have kids." Then his eyes   
uncross. "Someday." He adds almost sheepishly.  
  
"Trowa . . . " I start, uncertain but tired.  
"Dorothy," he interrupts. "I guess I was lacking   
imagination when I had you to myself those years. I should   
have . . . "   
  
Trowa looks away. "Well, Eunoe certainly is a lot different   
than I expected. She's changed so much in the past years. I   
remember how wild she was at first. Truly untamed. To see   
her so docile." He stumbles over his own doubled thoughts.   
  
"I took public transportation here."  
  
"And take me out to eat." I want something, but I can't   
quite focus on what it was as I become uncomfortable on   
Trowa's behalf. "Some imagination. This didn't really work   
last time either."  
  
He looks hurt, then his lower lip curls in a half-hearted   
smile. "I wanted to do something differently this time."  
  
***  
  
After the ribbon cutting ceremony, a silly tradition but a   
lasting one, I hovered near Trowwa as much as I could. We   
had an official press conference that morning which had   
tired both of us. But my devotion was brimming with   
enthusiasm. I had watched Trowa systematically catalogue   
this planet, affectionately bond our team-members, and   
effortlessly win over my heart. I simply wasn't aware how   
effortless his part had been.  
  
"Let's celebrate, quietly?" I had suggested, looping   
Trowa's arm with my own. He had grown accustomed to my   
desire to cuddle him every once and a while. His only   
comment had been that it made him feel supported. I had   
assumed that supported meant the same thing as it meant to   
me--that the other women on our team understood that *I*   
supported   
  
Trowa.   
  
Glancing down puzzled, Trowa said, "Sure, but Relena and a   
few of the other diplomats here were going to feed us. I   
think she even brought us appropriate clothing."  
  
I glanced down at the dress that Relena had let me borrow   
for the opening ceremonies. "Another dress."  
  
"Yeah," Trowa said more comfortably, teasing. "You look   
great, perfect, in *that* dress too. I told her you   
wouldn't really need another attempt."  
  
"Well, let's do something more together, now." I hinted.   
  
"We did do this together. Let's make it official together."  
  
For all of my persuading, Trowa merely shrugged. "Good   
idea."  
  
We went to the outskirts of town where things looked more   
familiar. Less taken over by the new settlement. Everything   
there was stale and still foreign to us. I pulled off the   
heels that Relena had also let me borrow as we walked up to   
the top of a hill we'd both crossed several times before.  
I ran my fingers through my hair, still short, but longer   
than when I first had come to this planet. Eunoe's sun was   
warm against my freckling skin. I had learned that I   
wouldn't tan while I was on this planet. "Feels good." I   
murmured, then spreading out my skirt sat on the grass.   
Trowa stood a moment longer, uncertain. Then he sat down   
next to me, his back to the sun and to the new city. We   
could survey the still wild portion of the country.  
  
"When we first came here, Trowa Barton," I started, feeling   
sentimental, "I wondered if this was where I'd find   
something to make myself feel forgiven. Like you had   
mentioned. Something good might happen to me, I expected   
grace."  
  
He nodded. Listening. I had to admire his knack, his   
devotion to listen to me trying to understand myself for   
the past years. The evenings when I tearfully confessed   
that I had no idea who I was let alone where I was and why.  
  
"And when I found myself here. I found myself with you." I   
continued. Wondering what kept me from confessing such love   
to him before this changing started. "You had offered this   
to me."  
  
"Dorothy, I . . ." Trowa started, then stopped. I waited a   
moment. Letting the breeze tangle my hair. I felt very   
courageous.  
  
"I want to stay with you, Trowa." I turned to lean, look,   
at him. "I don't know what else I could do. I don't know   
what we might find now, now that we are no longer   
invisible, but I want it to be with you. Then I could do   
anything."  
  
"I'm going back to earth." Trowa started.  
  
"Fine." I sprawled back on the hill, feeling the grass   
tickling my neck, my cheeks, my ears. "We haven't seen   
earth since Eunoe. Perhaps she'll look grandly different,   
our mother world. Or maybe she'll look just the same as   
Eunoe . . ."  
  
"I'm going to see Catherine and then Quatre." Trowa added.  
  
"I would like to see them again, knowing how dear they are   
to you. Trying to understand them the way that you do.   
How I've learned to . . . love . . . I, Trowa . . . " I   
panicked, unable to finish my sentence without thinking it.   
  
I loved Trowa. I couldn't imagine not being near him. And   
being near him now, like this, thinking this. "I love you."  
I felt my heart stop when he leaned down, leaned over me.   
Traced my cheek with his hand. He spoke with a breath too   
close that I had to breath it into myself. "Dorothy."  
  
Somehow when he said my name, I took it in and understood   
it differently. I understood myself because of him.  
  
I watched his eyes, shielded behind those glasses he still   
wore. They were resolved and my heart turned cold.   
  
"I can't."  
  
"I don't . . . understand . . ."   
  
"Neither do I." Trowa pulled back into himself and stood   
up. Dusted off his clothes. Putting the remnants of Eunoe   
back where they belonged.  
  
He offered me his hand, and I wanted to cry. But I   
couldn't.  
  
***  
  
"I want to do something differently this time."  
Trowa captures my hand across the table and lets his   
fingers pull slightly on mine. "Dorothy, I . . . I didn't   
know that I could . . . love . . . someone in the way that   
meant--I was responsible to love. I lost Catherine,   
because--somehow--she was taken away from me. So, I didn't   
know that I might . . . again. Love again, like that,   
completely." He let go of my hand, nervously. "I don't   
deserve you."  
  
It's my turn to listen. And I agree all too quickly, he   
hasn't really deserved me. Not since he left.  
  
***  
  
"Are you going back to Earth now that your work is done,   
Trowa Barton?" One of Relena's companions asked him. He was   
wearing a suit much finer than I had seen in some time, and   
I had been an aristocrat. Relena had chosen well. He had   
declined my offer on the hill, but he still held me captive   
to his every movement. He seemed so handsome to me, even as   
he sat across the table talking to another woman.  
  
"I will." Trowa nodded, balancing his single bean on the   
fork a moment to answer her.   
  
"A special getaway." The woman flirted shamelessly.   
  
"No." Trowa had the decency to look flustered.  
  
"Not a honeymoon?" She whispered. I was pretending not to   
listen, but still I froze. The woman added, "Everyone's   
been talking about how cuddly *she* is with you. Although,   
I suppose you've already explored those feeling for each   
other."  
  
"No." Trowa retorted, a chill slipping into his tone. "I'm   
going to visit Catherine and my god-child."  
  
"I thought . . ." the woman had no limit.  
  
"You thought Dorothy and I were in a relationship?" Trowa's   
voice rose with intensity, but he checked it before   
gathering the attention of others. I seemed intent on my   
own reflection in the soup bowl. "No. We have had no   
conversations beyond the professional. Nothing   
inappropriate happened between us."  
  
"Well, I never . . . I apologize" the woman disapproved of   
Trowa's reaction. "I see no need to become defensive."  
  
Trowa's breathing was deep even as he chewed his vegetable.   
He had not only declined my offer, but the thought of it   
obviously was inconvenient for him. Still, I had followed   
him to the shuttle until he left, still hoping.  
  
***  
"I don't deserve you."  
  
He folds his napkin on the table. Then folds it again.   
Ruffling the corners. "Then again, Pietro doesn't deserve   
Catherine."  
  
I catch his gaze. "You just want to give Carlotta   
'cousins'."  
  
"Eventually," Trowa says cautiously, uncertain if I wanted   
to hear that truth. "But, I learned from Carlotta what a   
truly innocent love looks like. I remember having that for   
Catherine and for Quatre, even during the war. It was   
something pure for me to hold onto regardless. Now I have   
them less."   
  
He continues, "It was when I saw them again that I realized   
that I had missed them. But not nearly as much, because I   
had . . . I had found you."  
  
I frown. Why was he saying these things? I wanted to   
believe him, but why now that I had given up?  
  
"I wish I had used my imagination earlier, so that I could   
have seen you as you are rather than the person who I   
thought   
  
I was hearing. I thought that you were still captive to   
your old ways since you spoke about them so much.  
  
"You were simply putting that behind you. I . . . I hadn't   
put my past behind me. I was the one who hadn't accepted   
the grace I was looking for."  
  
When I do not answer, he stands. "I can count you among the   
people I have loved and lost."  
  
He turns and walks away. And I watch with warm tears   
pooling in my eyes. I wonder if he realized he loved me   
when I left him at the shuttle. I hadn't turned to look   
that last time I had given up my weary pursuit. I wonder   
because now, as he's blurring beyond the closed door, I   
remember how I feel.   
  
How I feel about him. How I accept grace.  
I will change Trowa's tally. I will be the one he loves.  
  
the end. 


End file.
